


The Cost of Life

by Piano_Padawan



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Blood and Torture, M/M, Romance, spamano - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-05-29 02:31:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6355336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piano_Padawan/pseuds/Piano_Padawan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lovino has withered away for eighteen years along the streets of Naples, struggling to support himself and his brother. When a desperate crime brings him into contact with Signore Antonio Fernández Carriedo, an eccentric benefactor offering aristocratic comforts at a miniscule price, Lovino is immediately suspicious. After all, the world is full of traps. Spamano SLASH.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Young Man's Reputation

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I am not Himaruya Hidekaz and therefore do not own Hetalia.
> 
> Author's Note: As always, constructive feedback is appreciated. This is my first Hetalia fan fiction. I apologize for any historical inaccuracies. If anyone knows of any good resources for studying Naples in the early 19th century, feel free to share them! The sources I’ve found online are relatively limited. The story doesn’t really focus on any single historical event or movement, but it’s always helpful to research the setting.

The warden had convened a meeting at an obscure time of night. Nonetheless, a prisoner had no place to argue with their captors and Antonio knew with certainty that he was a chained man. Such a man always complied with absurd requests with the most stoical resignation he could muster. Admittedly, Antonio was no expert at concealing either his unease or his reluctance, but ultimately, he obeyed the commands thrust upon him. He would then return to his own troubled evenings to tear himself apart over the outcome, but such was not the concern of the warden. His sole duty was to order the job and see it swiftly completed; guilt was the role of slaves.  
With these bonds coiled about him, Antonio sat before his warden. His hands gripping the table in front of him with a vigor which he found astonishing, for but a moment ago, he had felt ready to collapse from weariness. He felt his blood flowing with abrupt pulses that wracked his bones. The old grandfather clock in the background ticked a sharp, threatening rhythm, urging him to respond to the question. Drawing in a breath that seemed to choke him rather than grant him further equanimity, he said, weakly:  
“You know I am in the position to grant you even the most absurd slips of the law. There is certainly power in that, but that power does not extend to your request; I can do nothing for it, Signore.”  
The warden, in turn, gave the Spaniard a dismissive glance of gleaming obsidian and replied:  
“You say that your influence extends across the law. Tell me then, is what I ask not at the very core of the law?”  
Antonio faltered and glanced from the mocking grandfather clock to the door. It seemed for a moment that he would dash out of the room with all the fury of a lunatic. However, he made no such move and instead directed an apprehensive gaze back at the other man.  
“I’m afraid I do not understand your meaning,” murmured Antonio.  
The warden’s mouth curled into a smile in a motion much like the slow unfurling of a whip.  
“It is simple really,” he said. “But I shall start from the root of it for your own sake. Is it within your abilities, which you seem to think I’ve severely overestimated, to extract clandestine charges from the legislative funds?”  
“I’ve done it before,” Antonio replied.  
“Standard Neapolitan currency?”  
“Yes.”  
“Consider then,” continued the warden, who seemed to be reaping much glee from the conversation. “The currency of the law. Let’s say a day in prison with nothing done is a worthless coin. Thirty lashes is a pretty sum, but still not the most prized piece. What would be the highest price?”  
Antonio made no response and the warden grinned broader in amusement.  
“Your mind is quite dull today, my boy,” he said. “I will pose the question in another form: what is the highest price a person can pay for a criminal offense?”  
“Death,” Antonio said, as though the mere utterance of an answer pained him.  
“Indeed,” continued the warden. “Thus, the heaviest sum in the currency of the law lies in the lives of men. You are the master of the law in our little society, and yet you tell me now that you have no dealings with the currency of legislation? I then wonder what use we have for you.”  
“I can order an execution,” Antonio retorted. “That does not mean I have any right to deal in lives as you have asked of me.”  
“An execution consists of an exchange,” the warden said with a soft tone placed over latent malice. “You trade the life of a dangerous man to save that of others. I now request such an exchange and if you shall not comply with it, I shall simply elect for the costlier option.”  
Antonio blanched and the other man added with a note of flippancy:  
“And for that option, I shall supplement the price with two more corpses from Spain.”  
At this, Antonio winced and slowly shrunk into a piteous, desperate youth. Hours seemed to drift by as he rested his trembling hands against the edge of the armchair as though to stop himself from reeling over onto the marble floor. Finally, he said, hoarsely:  
“I will do as I can, but I beg you to have enough mercy to give me time. It shall take time…”  
“Time is an uncertain requirement that I cannot possibly commit to,” the warden replied, coldly. “However, I sense that you will make do with whatever I do grant you. I take my leave now. I do hope we’ll have the matter flowing smoothly by the time we next meet, my boy.”  
Nodding shakily, Antonio saw his master to the door and waited until he was pass the front gates to return to bed. Ambling through the luxurious halls of his captivity, he found himself in a most magnificent and horrifying prison, one in which he was beaten by twisted responsibility and starved of freedom until he was unrecognizably despicable.  
Neither his mind nor his body would gain any rest that night. As he lay in bed, his exhaustion mocking him, the awful realization of his commitment slowly drowned him. He closed his eyes in an attempt to catch some bleak reminiscence of peace, preparing his soul for many more tortuous hours, each more excruciating, each more paralyzing.  
He found himself chucking. It was lunacy after all, and lunacy was always laughable, whether it was inane madness, or the chilling fusion of insanity and supremacy that forced one to create a false light. Thus, smiling to himself as to feign victory, he drifted through the bars of night which led him without fail into the void of dawn.

Lovino was not certain what had brought him down to his knees. The confusion was common enough. Life tended to fly by too fast to determine the causes. No; “life” wasn’t the right term. “Happenings” was more suitable.  
That morning’s happenings involved the youth Lovino himself, a doctor known around the city as Signore Agostino Foscari, and far too many curious bystanders for comfort. It had begun with a simple request which had been received with such acrimony that the entire bargain had rapidly morphed into a row. Had he not been inoculated to shame, Lovino would perhaps have shrunk back from the shear ignominy of the situation. As it was however, he had fallen too low to care.  
So, he persisted. Dirt-laden cobblestones scraped against his skin as Signore Foscari, whose cloak he clung to ever so fervidly, pulled forward. A few drops of scarlet peeped out with a distinctive bite. Yet, Lovino only tightened his grip.  
“You will kill Feliciano!” he cried. “Murderous bastard!”  
“Your inability to care for the boy is none of my concern,” Foscari bellowed back. “Let go, you wretched cur!”  
Lovino responded by tugging the fabric farther towards him. He received a kick to the ribs and winced at the fresh surge of pain. Clinging to the image of his brother, however, he maintained his hold.  
“You will have him die then?” he seethed. “You will have him curl up and die before you will see to him? Then, I suppose you’ll demand a fee to look upon the corpse?”  
“I’ve stated the price,” the doctor replied, coldly. “I cannot afford to make exceptions for every whining brat on the streets. Now, get you gone!”  
The next blow was accompanied by the sharp taste of blood, which Lovino spat onto the fabric before him. The commotion had now attracted a small crowd, majority of which remained too amused to intervene. At last, an old merchant grew weary of the spectacle and moved to tear the relentless youth away from Foscari, who indignantly swept back his cloak in an effort to cleanse it.  
Upon seeing the doctor departing, Lovino lunged forward once more. The audience watched anxiously for a brawl, but received nothing of the sort. Instead, Lovino fell upon the street and shrieked:  
“Please, Signore! I will pay you whatever price you ask for in time if you shall tend to my brother now! I can find you the money, but Feliciano –”  
“Do not pester me with lies!” Foscari yelled back. “I am not a fool. I will not be conned.”  
Lovino opened his mouth to protest, but stopped when he saw the approaching figure.  
“Good day to you, Signore Carriedo!” Foscari called out.  
The man’s ornate suit and the glimmering weapon at his side were enough to betray his authority at a distance. Lovino didn’t care to meet any bit of it. A fearful energy overcame his weakness and he fled as though he were being chased by a specter. It was a hopeless retreat for he knew that he would undoubtedly be caught if pursued. Yet, by some bizarre fortune, no one followed him.  
Thus, the day commenced with nothing to be gained but a few throbbing bruises from the incident. There was nothing good to be said with a day that began with injuries, but the night always held greater evils. It was all relative.

Lovino collapsed by the side of a decrepit store after what felt like hours of sprinting. His every muscle cried for reprieve and his lungs burned within him. Exacerbating these ailments was the longing for nourishment which had plagued him his entire life with growing ferocity. Harnessing what little strength he still possessed, he ambled back behind the wooden structure and crawled underneath it.  
There was a little ditch beneath the building. No one had ever bothered to inspect such a minor thing, and Lovino was grateful for the fact. The recent rains had turned the ground about him to mud, although it mattered little to him. Mud and other petty sources of annoyance were the concern of those who in fact had nothing to be concerned about. From the depths of the dimly lit space came a tremulous call:  
“Fratello? Where were you?”  
Lovino crept closer to the owner of the voice and felt a pair of small, pale hands wrap around him. A mop of auburn hair brushed against his neck and he instinctually returned the child’s embrace. He stiffened when he felt the burning fever.  
“I told you I was going to the doctor, Feli,” muttered Lovino. “Dammit! Why can’t you remember anything?”  
Ignoring the brusque words, Feliciano nuzzled closer against his elder brother and said with a note of frail elation:  
“That’s good. When will you take me?”  
“We will…” Lovino hesitated. “We will go soon.”  
“When is soon?”  
“Soon enough. You won’t have to wait much longer.”  
Feliciano accepted the lie without question. Whether this naivety was bound to be a blessing or a curse was unclear, but, for the time being, Lovino took it as a stroke of luck.  
A breath of wind swept through, making the young child shiver. At this, Lovino gripped his brother tighter. He often found himself ill-suited to provide comfort, having little knowledge of the matter. Yet, fraternal sympathy drove him to attempt to give what consolation he might. He had resolved that as Feliciano had no better example to judge from, the child would appreciate whatever his brother had to offer. Such was indeed the case, for Feliciano seemed to relax a little, though he continued to tremble.  
Lovino did not know exactly how long he remained kneeling in the dirt, stiffly clutching his brother. The only trace of fading time lay in the fleeting rays of sunlight, glimmering through the wooden boards above the entrance to the ditch before giving way to shadow. Lovino often watched the ephemeral light with a kind of melancholy amusement. The spectacle granted him a much needed distraction.  
His attention was drawn away from the sunbeams by a soft whimper. Feliciano had begun to squirm. There was no need to ask the reason.  
“Fratello,” Feliciano moaned. “Did you bring anything to eat?”  
“If I did,” Lovino groaned. “I would have given it to you already. Do you suppose that there’s food lying about on the streets for me to bring to you?”  
Feliciano said nothing in return, though the flickering pain beneath his silence remained evident. After setting his brother down, Lovino made his way over to the back of the ditch and began to rummage through the dirt where he found a few coins.  
“Is this all there is?” he asked, speaking half to himself.  
“I think so,” Feli replied weakly.  
Lovino turned to recount the coins. His hands shook and he cringed as an unpleasant chilling sensation ran through his bones.  
“Fratello, will you be working this evening?”  
It was an innocent question with a simple, clear answer. Still, the cold rush grew fiercer as Lovino forced a response.  
“Yes,” he said, clutching the coins. “Because this sure as hell isn’t going to last us another day.”  
“I don’t want you to go,” Feli sniffed. “It’s too lonely when you go… to scary and lonely…”  
“Damn it, Feliciano!” Lovino snapped. “What do you want me to do?”  
“I want you to stay!”  
“If I do that, I’ll just be up all night dealing with your sniveling about being hungry… and you’ll be right to cry since we’ll both have something to whine about!”  
“Then… then let me come with you while you work!”  
“NO!” Lovino grew pale, the dreadful chill slowly tearing away at him. “No, no… you’ll just be a pest and trust me, one minute into the job and you’ll be wishing that you’d listened to me and stayed where you belong!”  
“Why? Is it very dangerous?”  
“Yes,” Lovino sighed heavily. “It’d be too… too much for you.”  
He paused, awaiting another question. However, he did not receive one. Instead, Feliciano slowly curled up on the ground and murmured something incomprehensible. Lovino had never seen his brother so subdued. He crept closer and whispered:  
“Don’t worry about me. I’m going to the market now. Then, I’ll come back with something to eat. You’ll be asleep by the time I leave for my job and I’ll be back before you even notice I’m gone. Alright?”  
“Alright.”  
“Wait here then. Promise you won’t follow me. You don’t want to anyway. Promise?”  
Feli nodded. It was a pleasing sight and for an instant, everything seemed simple, perhaps even pure. Lovino did his best to capture the sensation. Dusk would inevitably come to shatter the peace, but till then, it could be secured.  
“Stop fretting over me, you bastard,” Lovino muttered. “Now, I’ll see you tonight for supper.”  
With that, he crawled out into the glaring noontide sun. There was something to be said about too much light. The beams, so tantalizing in the darkness, proved hollow in excess. It was simply disappointing.

The marketplace seemed to move farther away every morning. Yet, it was an irreplaceable part of the daily cycle. The trip involved a mechanical route of two turns and a longer stretch at the end. There, Lovino halted to rest beside a pile of broken crates at the edge of the plaza. He could not recall how many hours of his life he’d withered away in that spot, nor could he predict for how much longer the cycle would continue.  
Lovino tiredly examined the miserable coins. Counting them in his outstretched palm again, he found that they were too few for a purchase. He turned towards the activities of merchants and buyers, eying the stands of tart cherries and fragrant pears.  
"Half of the pears are half rotten," Lovino mused. "Perhaps, they will toss the spoiled ones out tomorrow, out for the rats to snatch up?  
"A damn lot of wistful nonsense," the cynic within him replied. "They will clear it out, yes, but they shall not throw food out into the streets. No, the bastards shall tuck away somewhere, or bury it, or do whatever they do to keep it from you. After all, they don’t want to attract rats.  
Dragging his attention away from the fruit, Lovino looked further up the sloping road. There were but a few shops there, all of which reeked of luxury. Years ago, the exorbitant goods had captured Lovino’s own childish fantasy, like buried treasure in a fairy-tale. Now, they served only to irk him. He often wondered at times how excessive affluence twisted the mind to believe that jeweled trinkets and ornate tapestries were worth mountains of gold.  
An example of such foolishness happened to take place in front of him that day. Lovino watched the spectacle with the kind of keenness that is in accord with the cryptic instinct that attracts humans to that which most disgusts them. There were too men, one old, one young, both clad in the manner that boasted their prominence, engaged in a bargain with an eager vender.  
Lovino scowled as the customers dished out shimmering coins like dry leaves in autumn. It was unusual for any buyer to bring such large sums to the marketplace itself, but apparently, banks not ostentatious enough for this pair. The sale was incontrovertibly impressive.  
“Fifteen piastras for Foscari,” Lovino muttered. “For Felicano’s sake. There’s his worth right there, and I suppose mine’s a damn lot less. Now here’s a jar of spice worth the two of us combined… no five times that! No, more! More, for the bastards!”  
His thoughts were shattered by a jarring crash. A cart had rolled out of control and toppled over, spilling its contents across the street. The dealings over the spices was interrupted as the two men and the merchant left to investigate the scene. The younger of the two nobleman stepped forth to lend some perfunctory aid to the distress owner of the cart. What charity! Lovino sniggered at the thought of this “good Samaritan” boasting of his venerable deeds, but his attention quickly turned to a more pressing opportunity: the money had been left unguarded.  
In retrospect, it was an utterly hopeless crime. At that instant, however, the impossible prize was, as all unattainable things are, irresistible. The matter was not up to deliberate. Instead, Lovino was confronted by a simple choice between the law and Feliciano, knowing but two simple facts: twelve-years-old was too young to die, and any law that defended the death of a child was of no value.  
So, Lovino snuck over to the booth. He didn’t have time to count how much he’d taken before the first shout rang through the air. The next few moments flew by as though he were caught in a dream.  
Something brought him tumbling onto the ground. He had tripped, or someone had struck him from behind, or maybe it was both. The coins dropped on the road in front of him with the glimmer of tiny disks of sunbeams falling into shadow. Lovino stretched out a bony hand, now scratched and bloodied from the fall, out to gather them before being dragged upward by the collar of his shirt.  
A little more shouting, a little more blood, and then it was off to the authorities and whatever punishment they saw fit. Halfway to the jail, Lovino awoke from the fantasy and was greeted by scalding daylight. Dread gripped him and he cried out in vain. Yes, the world was bright with happenings, all waiting to leap out and sweep some poor soul away in the endless current.

There was nothing worse for a headache than sycophants. That, Antonio was certain of. He had spent the entirety of his morning wishing he had stayed asleep, pestered by his subordinates and other colleagues. He had finally given up fighting the drowsiness and laid his head against the documents sprawled across his desk, only to be disturbed once more by another knock at the door.  
“Tell them to wait!” he called out, yawning. “I will be wherever I am needed in a minute.”  
“Signore, if I could please speak with you for a moment, we could perhaps settle this affair now,” came the reply. “It shall be brief.”  
Antonio reluctantly made his way over the door and opened it for his assistant, a man around twenty years of age who stood in the doorway with an impeccable degree of attention. Every inch of detail about him made Antonio’s head pound.  
I had thought that an assistant was meant to put one at ease! Antonio thought, bitterly.  
“What in the world is it now, Paolo?” he asked.  
“It appears there was a disturbance in the marketplace,” Paolo replied.  
“Some elaboration would be greatly appreciated,” Antonio said dryly.  
“Well, two gentlemen were robbed whilst attempting to carry out a prearranged purchase. The merchant they were buying the goods managed to catch the thief before he could escape. Oddly enough, it was the same youth who harassed Signore Agostino Foscari earlier this morning! Do you recall, Signore?”  
Yes, Antonio remembered the skirmish between Doctor Foscari and someone who was, from what he could gather, a severely dissatisfied patient. It had been the singular intriguing incident of an exceptionally dull day.  
“Yes, but I did not get a good look at the offender,” Antonio said. “They have him here then?”  
“The thief, Signore?” Paolo asked.  
“Who else?”  
“Yes, Signore.”  
“Have they sentenced him, then?”  
“No, Signore. That is why I was sent here to consult with you.”  
“I see…”  
Antonio stalked back over to his desk, opened the window above it. The sunlight flew in, pushing back the shadows of walls and furniture, leaving only Antonio’s own silhouette sprawled upon the floor behind him. The stairwell echoed with familiar voices, the words too muffled to decipher. Antonio heaved a long sigh.  
“Do I have a choice here?” he asked tiredly.  
“I beg your pardon, Signore,” Paolo replied.  
“Perhaps if you are successful with your ambitions in the legal system,” Antonio said. “You will better understand that punishment is not between the leading authority and the criminal. We have an old system here… they don’t care for youngsters coming to power. They don’t care for nepotism, for they’ve all conveniently forgotten the paternal favors that aided them. That aside, they can stand a young man’s authority if he uses it with the stern hand of an elder gentleman. Otherwise, they’ll gripe about youth being too soft…”  
“I don’t quite understand your meaning, Signore.”  
The response did not come immediately. Instead, Antonio gazed lazily about the wide office, taking in everything from the burgundy curtains to the imposing entranceway where Paolo stood. He drew a drowsy finger across the carved patterns at the edge of his desk and closed his eyes to consider the question at hand.  
“Signore?”  
Antonio glared at his assistant.  
“What?” he snapped.  
“Have you reached your decision?” Paolo inquired tentatively. “Or would you rather I return later?”  
“I will decide in a moment,” Antonio replied. “First, you must advise me.”  
“Advise you, Signore?” The younger man was aghast. “I have lived in Naples but a year and have only studied the administration of the law for –”  
“Whatever knowledge has brought you thus far will do,” Antonio interjected. “Now what is the lightest punishment for theft?”  
“Considering the amount, perhaps a small fine and a word of warning? A brief jail sentence?”  
“Well then, what is the harshest?”  
“A death sentence, Signore.”  
Antonio walked over to the window to shut it before answering. The sunlight had grown a little too heavy.  
“What is the harshest besides death?” he asked.  
“Flogging or another form of severe corporal punishment,” Paolo said, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Perhaps a fine… both even if –”  
“Then set the penalty at both,” Antonio said. “Let the officer who heard the case decide the number of lashes and the cost of the fine. There, you have my decision. Go tell the other men. Bring me whatever papers necessary and I shall sign them today.”  
He turned back to his desk and quickly busied himself with a book.  
“Signore…” his assistant began.  
“Hmm?”  
“Oh, never mind. It is not my place to say.”  
“You can be earnest with me. Come! Say what you will.”  
“I… it is foolish of me to say, but… well, your decision came as a surprise.”  
“Let’s just say,” Antonio said, forcing a smile. “That I’ve come to terms with my position. A young man’s reputation is a valuable thing, especially when he has been appointed Chief Officer of the Law, and reputations should never go untended for long!”  
“Certainly, Signore,” Paolo replied. “I will inform the others of your decision.”  
“Good. See to it then.”  
The door shut with a tidy click and Antonio collapsed into his chair. His assistant brought him the papers soon after, each of which was signed as promised. Then, having assumed his title, the Chief Officer of the Law was left alone once more.  
Another tedious hour dragged by, during which Antonio was overcome by an uncomfortable bought of heat. When he could stand it no longer, he threw open his office door and stumbled out into the hall like a drunkard. His headache had steadily worsened and the room, however commodious, was stifling him. So, he consulted the traditional remedy for a heavy heart: a brief walk in search of air.  
He was scarcely conscious of what direction he chose. As long as there was movement, the remedy would surely work. The day, however, was set to taunt him, and led him down rather than outside. Down into the entrance hall, past the entrance hall back into the corridor, down the corridor, down the stairwell…  
Antonio stopped to examine his surroundings and nearly laughed aloud.  
“What better place to find fresh air than the prison cells!” he said to himself.  
To his surprise, a rasping voice echoed down the dim hallway in response:  
“Signore! Signore, hear my case! Signore, please… my brother…”  
Antonio started at the sound and stared down the direction from which it had come. It was unbecoming to answer a prisoner, so it followed that the Chief Officer would ignore it. The Chief Officer would head presently upstairs and return to his own affairs. It was unbecoming to wander downstairs in the first place!  
But Antonio was weary of business and the Chief Officer of the Law. He would inevitably return to both soon enough. Besides, his name was already secured for the day.  
“Signore!” another call resounded in the prison.  
Antonio followed it without further hesitation.


	2. A Curious Kind of Value

Lying on the tattered straw bed of the jail cell, Lovino found greater comfort than he had had in a very long time. A guard had come to give him some watery broth, the most Lovino had eaten in the past two days. He would perhaps, if not for the cold trepidation surging through his blood, have been contented in his captivity, but such was not the case.

He knew not what punishment awaited him, though the time the penalty was kept secret from him was torment enough. He had heard stories of men being locked up to await their sentence for weeks, months even. If the ordeal was his alone, he wouldn’t have minded. What good would freedom do him then? But such was not the case, and Feliciano could not wait another week.

Soon after being thrown behind the shadow of the crooked bars, Lovino unwittingly surrendered his thoughts to darker speculation. The law was a mercurial but powerful being, which dealt death whenever its fickle cruelty deemed an execution just. Perchance, there would be no wait at all, and he would be hanged the next day.

The thought was paralyzing, but in the end, there would be no choice but to accept whatever the law saw fit. Lovino did not know if he would be granted a trial, nor did he care. Any testimony on his part would be tossed aside as the blabbering of a worthless pest. Still, if he was to be killed, he would demand a hearing. If fortune was on his side, he could secure some aid for his brother before the execution, even if the support was nothing but a comfortable death bed.

Time poured by, and Lovino began to tear himself apart with wondering. It was then that he heard footsteps slowly descending the stairs. Gripping the bars of his cell, he peered out into the dim hall and glimpsed the figure of a man.

“Signore!” he called out. “Signore, hear my case! Signore, please… my brother…”

He squinted at the figure and glimpsed the scarlet uniform of the law officers. The little caution that had endured the day’s events warned of the consequences if the stranger took offense to his pleas, but Lovino continued.

“Signore!” he cried once more with added volume.

The officer turned and headed towards the cell. The prison windows filtered in only meager streaks from the sun and darkness intermittently obscured the man’s features, but Lovino could make out the shimmer of tiny badges. They were greater in number than that Lovino had seen on the other authorities, but were displayed in a far less dignified manner, as though they had been haphazardly pinned on as some type of impromptu disguise. Nonetheless, they were evidence of high rank and that was enough for Lovino to make his case.

“You were calling?” the officer asked. “Calling for me?”

There was a note of uncertainty about his voice that Lovino was uncertain how to interpret. It did not, however, simmer with ire or disgust. That alone was reason for hope.

“Yes,” Lovino answered hoarsely.

The stranger took another step closer and leaned against the bars, inspecting the prisoner. His verdant eyes stirred with a distinct vivacity at odds with the rest of the man. Lovino searched them for cruelty and found no overt malice. There was little assurance in the fact. After all, the worst of men are often the best at concealing their iniquity. The streets had been a fine tutor on the subject. Instinct ordered Lovino to retreat farther back into the cell. So, he did.

“I have no intention to hurt you,” the officer said.

The quiver in his voice certainly made him less convincing. Yet, there was a shimmer about it that Lovino could not help but notice. It danced before him with the footsteps of a sprite, tempting him. But the battered prudence within him dictated he would not heed it. So, Lovino let the fantasy fall before him. He looked up at the officer, wary despite his desperation.

“You don’t, do you?” he questioned. “Then, you will not let the law hurt me either?”

“The law…” the other man hesitated. “The law was not made to hurt anyone. It was devised to aid those who have been harmed.”

He was reciting a rule book and Lovino knew it was impossible to have an earnest conversation with a man who was reading from a script.

“Then, you will hear me?” Lovino persisted.

“I cannot claim to know what you want me to hear,” came the baffled reply.

“Please, Signore. I… I need your aid.”

The officer glanced at the stairs, and for a moment, made as though he would depart. Gripped by panic, Lovino stretched out his hand between the iron bars and caught hold of his captor’s cloak. No sooner had he felt the rich fabric, than he withdrew his touch. His heart pounded as he felt the stranger’s bright eyes fixated upon him. They were burning now, but not with the anticipated rage. No; they were kindled with inexplicable fascination.

“Alright then,” he said. “Gather yourself now. I think I shall ask the questions. Let’s begin with a name.”

“Lovino,” Lovino replied stiffly. The question, or rather the way it was posed, was altogether foreign to him.

“Lovino…”

Feeling that the officer was anticipating something more, Lovino added, “Lovino nothing. It means nothing to anyone… except my brother.”

“No, a name is a name,” the officer replied. “I suppose you ought to have something to call me if we are to speak with each other. I am Antonio Férnandez Carriedo.”

If he had not been so afflicted by worry, Lovino would have grinned at the lengthy appellation which was likely stretched further once the appropriate accolades of birth and petty honors were added on. As it was, however, he was not in the mood for laughter.

“Now, why did you call for me?” Antonio asked. “I don’t recall ever meeting you.”

“No…” Lovino faltered. “We haven’t met. I called you… for the sake of my brother. They arrested me today, Signore, but my brother knows nothing. He is… at home. He is only twelve… he is ill, Signore. Signore, no one else will listen... no one…”

He grasped at the air for some source of strength, but he found nothing but the cold cell door. It was then that he felt the touch of another hand close over his own. Gentle fingers traced over the calluses along his palm. Innocence could have been perceived the sensation as soothing, but Lovino possessed too much gall-like knowledge to consider it so. He tensed. His entire frame began to tremble visibly, but he dared not pull it away. To Lovino’s relief, Antonio released him and drew back, as though he had revealed a shameful secret.

“You needn’t worry about your brother,” Antonio said quickly. “You need only tell me his whereabouts, and I shall send someone to find him –”

“No,” Lovino interjected, shaking his head. Antonio stared at him confusedly.

“I don’t take you meaning,” he said.

“Feliciano… my brother needs me,” Lovino wracked his mind for an explanation. “He won’t come out to anyone but me. He will be scared and run away and get lost.”

It was a lie and a sorry excuse to anyone who knew gullible little Feliciano. Fortunately, Antonio was ignorant enough to accept the fib, though he remained slightly dubious of its validity.

“Then, what shall you have me do?” he asked, a note of exasperation rising in his voice.

“Let me return to him,” Lovino answered. “Let me come back to him alive. Please, Signore. You wouldn’t have us both dead. Even if you do hang your thieves, you wouldn’t have Feliciano die! You wouldn’t have children killed!”

The officer seemed taken aback, and Lovino feared that he had gone too far. He was in no position to be making demands.

“You are a thief?” Antonio asked tentatively.

Lovino flinched. He felt as if his heart was beating harshly against his ribs, rattling against its chains like a desperate bondman.

“Yes,” he replied, sullenly.

“When were you arrested?” Antonio’s tone rose.

“Earlier this morning.”

Antonio’s face slowly drained of color. He backed away from the cell and turned away from Lovino, muttering something to himself.

“You will have me killed,” Lovino choked out the words.

Antonio started, before shaking his head vehemently.

“No, no,” he said, nervously. “I would never do that.”

He reached into his right pocket and fidgeted about with a handkerchief with the sort of absentminded motions that screamed of one thing: concealment.

“You lie to me,” Lovino said before he could stop himself.

“Now, what would I gain from that?” Antonio exclaimed. He took his hand out of his pocket and let it fall idly by his side. Squinting in the darkness, Lovino thought he saw beads of sweat drop from Carriedo’s fingers.

“What would you lose from it?” he retorted.

A pause. The green flames rested upon Lovino once more, rising up with new energy.

“I’d lose your trust,” Antonio said at length.

“What would it matter?” Lovino sighed. “When did that ever matter?”

“Simply put,” Antonio’s voice grew faint, as though he was speaking to himself. “It would be a much appreciated change from the general pattern here. But beyond that, above that, there are some people whose trust is valued more than others, and it doesn’t take a tired man long to notice who they are.”

Lovino furrowed his brow in confusion but said nothing. Carriedo seemed satisfied by this response.

“I must depart now,” he said. “But you have my word that you shall return to your brother soon. Then, we can discuss some matters further…”

He strode swiftly towards the stairs and had disappeared into the gloom before Lovino could ask what “matters” they were to speak about. He crept to the back of his cell and curled up on the straw bed, wondering whether to feel terror, or comfort, or nothing at all. Exhaustion overcame him before he could decide.


	3. Burdens to Bear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who have favorited/followed this story. Special thanks to Crimson cat angel and Sporter for the reviews. I apologize for the slow pace of updates. This chapter ended up being longer than I expected. I hope to have more interaction between Antonio and Lovino from now on. Also, this story may go through some editing soon (changing the plot summary to be more representative of the story, revising other things that were just badly written, etc.).

Look now at what your impulse has done! Antonio berated himself as he searched through cluttered drawers for an ink bottle.

He had surrendered the illusion of a faceless crime the moment he followed the call in the prison. Now, the criminal had a name, a voice and a pleading gaze clouded by want. Lovino could scarcely be called a “criminal”; the term “victim” seemed much more fitting. 

Snatching up a pot of ink, Antonio set about composing a new order. His hand shook as he scrawled out a series of rambling instructions as to how the boy was to be pardoned, while the Chief Officer himself would pay whatever fines for the crime. All the while, the image of Lovino crouched in the filthy prison cell haunted the Spaniard’s thoughts. 

Lovino was a sight that could not be ignored, perhaps because he had been so frequently overlooked. Antonio was not ignorant of the existence of poverty; he had seen its bitter fruit scattered along the streets. Still, he had never been so bluntly confronted by indigence until he encountered its ghost in Lovino. The Spaniard could not help but wonder how the prisoner was still alive. Every bit of his physique, from his thin – no, skeletal – frame to the way he shivered from malady, or hunger, or whatever other ill, spoke of death. It was an atrocious denial of life. 

And what had Antonio done to help? He had decided to tighten the noose around Lovino’s neck to salvage his status. The guilt was scalding and would have driven Antonio mad had it been too late to mend the error. There was already enough blood on his hands, and the “law” would undoubtedly bring him fountains more in time, but he would not bear a single drop of Lovino’s. He was determined to save this one fragment of purity. 

Once he had finally finished writing, Antonio looked down at the scrawl before him. By the standards of respectable society, it was an abomination. Even if the recipient could miraculously decipher the scribbled lines of ink blotted with fresh drops of sweat, the content of the decree was absurd. 

Antonio wondered for a moment what his superiors would think of his blunder. Their impression of him had already sunk to an abysmal level of late, not that this came as any surprise. It was common knowledge that the young Spaniard had bought his position with the gift of patrimony and a bizarre stretch of luck early on in his career. That secret was disclosed, but Antonio cared little; there were more pressing secrets to secure. 

He had barely begun to compose a more presentable copy of the letter when he heard a sharp knock at the door. Cursing under his breath, he ran a tired hand through his hair and called out: 

“It isn’t locked!” 

The door opened with a creak followed by the hollow sound of footsteps striding across the room. Antonio remained hunched over his desk, his pen digging into the fresh paper with frantic markings. The footsteps stopped a yard away and Antonio paused, waiting for a proper greeting. Upon receiving none, he groaned and set his pen down. 

“I am in the middle of some very important business,” Antonio said. 

“Perhaps that would explain your lack of courtesy today, Signore Carriedo.” 

No voice could have been more unwelcomed. Gritting his teeth, Antonio rose from his seat and stalked over to face the visitor. Puerile as it was, he took special care to physically look down on the other man, even if he was only an inch or two taller at most. 

“I don’t remember you saying anything about coming here today, Signore Kirkland,” Antonio said. 

“I doubt knowing about it would have made you any happier to have me,” Arthur replied. “And I thought I talked to you about addressing me as ‘Mister Kirkland’.” 

“We are in Italy, are we not, Arthur?” Antonio retorted. “But now’s no the time to argue about names and languages. I have some very pressing business to finish.” 

“You’ve grown much more responsible than when we last met, haven’t you?” Arthur said. 

“Well, it’s rather hard to work with you poking your nose into my office whenever I’m in the middle of something!” Antonio snapped. “So, what have you come for this time?” 

“Oh, they wanted me to check on your… work ethic, shall we say. Just to make sure you’re maintaining a respectable reputation. We’ve had our doubts lately, and the recent word about your wavering judgment has gotten quite a few people worried, not that I expected much more of you.” 

“I still don’t see the point of you barging in here.” 

“Well, I actually wasn’t planning on speaking with you today, until I heard some very fascinating news about your recent ‘change of heart’.” 

Antonio gestured for the other man to elaborate. However, Arthur seemed to have no intention of doing so. Instead, he sighed heavily and set about brushing dust off of his coat, as though such a task was much more intriguing than any conversation he could be having with the Spaniard in front of him. 

“Would you care to explain what this ‘fascinating news’ was about?” Antonio seethed. 

“I spoke with that boy, Paolo, in the entrance hall,” Arthur said, his mouth curling into a smile. “He said you were acting peculiar today. It seems you’ve taken to wielding your albeit limited authority with new… austerity… perhaps, what would come across to some as cruelty.” 

“What makes you say that?” Antonio asked, though he already knew the answer. 

“There was a young man arrested today for theft. If what I heard is true, he’s received a very heavy punishment by the decree of a certain Signore Carriedo. You’ve surprised me, Antonio. I never thought you’d have the audacity to do anything of the like!” 

Antonio felt his skin prickling with ire. Still, he tried with all his strength to calm himself. He could imagine nothing worse than attracting a crowd to his office with a shouting match. 

“I have some disappointing news for you then,” he said. 

“How typical,” Arthur said, frowning. “I suppose I ought to hear you out anyway.” 

“I’ve… reconsidered my decision concerning the thief,” Antonio said. “I was in the middle of writing a new statement when you interrupted.” 

Arthur narrowed his eyes. He had evidently found his meeting with Antonio distasteful from the start, but this turn of events had sparked a new level of displeasure. 

“What sort of statement?” he asked, already despising the answer. 

“A pardon,” Antonio replied. 

“A pardon?” Arthur repeated, aghast. 

“Yes, and I’d like very much for you to leave me alone to finish it now,” Antonio said, nodding at the door. “Good day, Signore.” 

With that, the Spaniard returned to the unfinished letter. He could feel Arthur’s glare boring into his neck. 

“What in the world possessed you to do something so utterly dimwitted?!” Arthur exclaimed, unable to control himself any longer. 

“I am free to do whatever I see fit,” Antonio said. “And it isn’t your place to tell me otherwise.” 

“It’s an abomination to all respectable use of authority!” Arthur protested. “Be sensible!” 

“I will use my authority as I deem just. What use is authority otherwise?” 

“Continue using it as you ‘deem just’ and soon the power won’t be yours to abuse anymore.” 

Antonio said nothing in response. The same persistent fears he had just managed to subdue had been awoken once more, and both men knew it. 

“How much are you willing to gamble that your family name will save your title, Carriedo?” Arthur leered. “Word is your superiors have already begun to realize your ineptness. Say you drop a few ranks below your current post. What use will you be to us then?” 

“I’m aware of the rumors, Arthur,” Antonio said. “I can manage my own repute perfectly well.” 

“Then why toss away this chance to save yourself?” Arthur said. “It’s selfish of you, really. The stakes are high for all of us.” 

“There will be other chances,” the Spaniard replied at length. “I can let this one go for Lovino’s sake.” 

Upon hearing the unfamiliar name, Arthur’s rage dissolved into confusion. The change was brief, however, for the Englishman quickly masked his baffled expression with one of skepticism. 

“For whose sake?” he questioned. 

“The young man accused of the theft,” Antonio continued, silently cursing himself for mentioning the boy. 

“You met with him?” 

“I did briefly. Just out of curiosity, nothing more.” 

Fully prepared to defend himself, Antonio glowered at the Englishman, daring his opponent to interrogate him further. Arthur, however, did not respond with another question. Instead, he walked over to the window, and stood there, staring at the curtains as though they were some source of ingenious inspiration. 

“Well?” Antonio called out impatiently. “Can I continue with my work then?” 

“You said the thief in question is a young man?” Arthur said after a long pause. 

“Yes…”

“How old?” 

“How would I know? Twenty? Younger than that, maybe? I don’t see why it would matter to you!” 

“He didn’t mention any relatives? A guardian, perhaps?” 

“He said he had a brother, a younger brother if I recall correctly…”

At last, Arthur turned away from the curtains to face the Spaniard. There was something unnerving about his grin. 

“I believe Signore Marchesi paid you a visit last night,” he said. 

“I… he did…” Antonio faltered, but hastily regained control when he saw the Englishman smirk. “He did visit me.” 

“I assume he told you of his unusual request.” 

“Yes…”

Again, Antonio nodded for the other man to continue, but Arthur seemed determined to prolong his explanation as long as possible. He had found himself another object to toy with while he stalled and was now examining the elegant watch strapped around his wrist with muted fascination. Antonio had seen the trinket many times, but he had never found it quite so irritating before. 

“Well?” Antonio growled. “Your point?” 

“Don’t you see it, Carriedo?” Arthur exclaimed, finally looking up from his watch. “A young man around twenty years of age, no connections – no significant connections, at least – I do think Signore Marchesi will be delighted with the fit!” 

Antonio blanched. He could feel a chill creep over him as his mind raced from one terrible solution to another. 

“I cannot,” he said in a quavering voice he did not recognize as his own. “I cannot… the boy… Lovino…”

“By God, Carriedo!” Arthur said. “Consider the perfection of it all! What is the boy to you now? Let him go if you will, let him rot in jail if you prefer that! Either way, you will be wasting a valuable chance! What will you do then? Conjure up another youth on the spot?” 

Arthur’s voice was rising with a type of excitement Antonio had rarely seen in the Englishman. There was an eerie quality about kind the tone that made the Spaniard even more wary of his visitor. 

“What if I were to lose this chance?” Antonio questioned. “You would lose nothing.” 

“Oh, but others would,” Arthur replied. “Others whose happiness I certainly do care about much more than yours. So in the end, our interests are all tied together. Your own interests are quite inseparably linked to our success in this endeavor, after all.” 

Antonio felt his head spinning. His thoughts had turned to a blur of responsibilities and orders with the images too chaotic to decipher. Still, one vision remained clear amidst the havoc. There was a mansion overlooking the sea and a young woman by its grand entrance. A boy was playing by her side. He was already three years old. Perhaps he remembered his uncle, perhaps he had forgotten long ago. There was no sure way to tell…

“What will you have me do then?” Antonio asked, meeting Arthur’s ecstatic smile with a cold glare. 

The remainder of their conversation was brief. Having secured his best interests, Arthur appeared to have grown tired of his game of stalling. After he had settled his plans one final time, the Englishman left, and Antonio alone once more. 

The remains of the unfinished pardon lay burning in the fireplace. The ravenous flames cackled with pleasure as they devoured the parchment. Antonio marveled over how such an ordinary sight could mirror the fury of hellfire so flawlessly. The demons of the law had broken loose and it would take a great deal of denial to subdue them. Such was the burden of authority. 

-x-X-x-

It was near dusk and the encroaching night had already engulfed half of the prison in darkness. Unable to see anything beyond his cell, Lovino had begun to listen more keenly to his surroundings. At least, he hoped that was all that had happened. 

Nearly two days had passed since his arrest and the state of his confinement grew more unsettling with every hour. He was now far too familiar with the jail’s eerie melody: the heavy breathing of another prisoner farther within, the echo of stern voices arguing upstairs, and the occasional muffled prayer of someone struggling to realize their solemn fate. Lovino could ignore these disturbances if he tried; he had dealt with worse before. There was, however, one sound that tormented him despite all his efforts to drive it away. 

At irregular intervals, the usual lament of the prison would be interrupted by a distant, metallic tapping. It was very faint and if detected could be easily dismissed at first, but its nature changed with each repetition. Perhaps it was the hollow ring that provided the haunting effect, or perhaps it was the simplicity. Regardless, Lovino was convinced of the sound’s malice. He had spent the last hour pouring over the source and had come to the conclusion that someone upstairs was constructing a coffin, hammering one nail in at a time. The project was nearing completion. Soon, it would be needing a corpse…

The quixotic fancy within him which inexplicably refused to die attempted to console him, echoing Carriedo’s reassurance that he need not fear an execution. There was something amiss about that man, something Lovino could not yet fully decipher. He had encountered countless tricks and lies throughout his life, but Antonio was more than just another conman. No, Antonio presented something entirely new to the Italian youth, and like all unfamiliar things, it was frightening. 

His thoughts were interrupted by voices echoing down the staircase, accompanied by the jingle of keys. Peering into the darkness, he saw the silhouette of two men making their way towards him. Lovino crept towards the barred door, listening to their conversation, a sense of dread rising within him. 

“Wonder what’s the matter,” came the hoarse voice of one of the men. “He’s been in an awful mood of late.” 

“I doubt it’s anything out of the ordinary,” replied the other. “You’re new ‘round here, so you don’t know how he is.” 

“He was quite genial when I first met him at the beginning of this month, Rossi,” argued the first man. “As a matter of fact, he struck me as rather… cheerful. I suppose I was mistaken. Wouldn’t be the first time.” 

“Dammit, Lorenzo. That’s just what I’m talking about! He’s been like that for as long as I’ve known him, mild mannered for the most part, but a real heap of trouble to deal with when he’s in a bad mood… though I can’t deny that this was a bit unusual even for him. Wonder what set him off…”

“Bad news from Spain perhaps? I believe he received a letter the other day.” 

“I can’t say. I don’t know much about his private affairs. He really isn’t half as open as he likes people to think he is, Carriedo. Touch the wrong subjects and you’ll see.” 

The two men came to a halt in front of Lovino. The one called Lorenzo looked down at the prisoner and shook his head. The look of pity in his grey eyes made Lovino shudder. Pity was, as Lovino was well aware, an exorbitant emotion, so much so that men were loath to gift sympathy on another lest the misfortune at hand was truly disastrous. 

The distant hammering from above began once more. The undertaker was working tirelessly. His project was already late. Eighteen years late. 

-x-X-x-

It was nearing nine o’clock in the evening, an uncomfortable hour to be stuck in a dim office. Most of the other officials had left hours ago. Few had come to investigate why Signore Carriedo was so inclined to stay behind. Even then, they questioned him not out of concern, but more out of suspicion or hunger for gossip. Carriedo was an eccentric fool; that was all. There was no need for concern. 

Antonio glanced once more at the wooden clock pinned against the wall and groaned. The prison was a dreadful place past midnight. At least, he thought it was. He had never investigated the theory, but there was evidence enough to believe in it. There were stories of criminals who, afflicted by some malady, died the night before their trial, forever starving their souls of justice. Antonio had never seen a specter and had no desire to do so. He was haunted enough as it was. 

Still, Antonio could not bring himself to leave yet. He had yet to find the reason, but guessed that it was likely an unpleasant cause. For now, he settled for substitute reasons, insignificant chores that had lingered in the back of his mind for months now. He had occupied the last hour “organizing” his desk into a new mess of papers and was now “organizing” the rest of his office in a similar manner. 

He reached the bookshelf and began to rearrange volumes arbitrarily. This activity would likely lead to great difficulty in finding necessary books in the future, but Antonio did not care. He would soon have the opportunity to move each book back to its original spot, thus stalling more time for whatever he was waiting for. 

There was an empty space at the corner of one shelf that made the rest of the row tip awkwardly to one side. Antonio inspected it curiously, trying to recall what was missing. He remembered reading an old novel downstairs earlier that day and decided to retrieve it. There was nothing more worthy of his time at the moment. 

Descending the staircase, he attempted to recall the title of the novel. It was a shame to forget, for the book had been an intriguing read. Perhaps it was Wealth and Order or the other way around or…

A muffled scream pierced the air. Antonio nearly tripped down the last steps in shock. The shriek was followed by another, mingled with a string of unintelligible words. There was the swift crack of leather striking flesh, met by another anguished cry. 

The pattern continued, beating against Antonio’s skull. The Spaniard winced and tried desperately to set his thoughts on the missing book. He still had not remembered its title. How unjust! The author had gone through such pains to compose the masterpiece and Antonio could not even get his mind around the title! 

Another scream echoed throughout the building. Then came the whiplash, the crying, the pleading, the guilt. Antonio turned to the stairwell leading down to the prison cells in horror. He had dealt orders for torture, executions and the like before – it was his duty – but he had never encountered the product until now. Society mandated that he should be proud; any man should be proud to see the fruit of his labors. 

Instead, Antonio was disgusted, disgusted with the law that lauded sadism, disgusted with those who pushed him to obey the law, disgusted with himself for heeding them. In this state of madness, he rushed down the lonely stairwell, past the rows of cells to the source of the noise. 

The screaming had dwindled to whimpering, and the occasional strangled sob. Still, it was a sign of life, and as long as that endured, redemption was not out of reach. 

-x-X-x-

Red. 

Lovino was drenched in it and there was more still to come. His throat was raw from screaming, his vision blurred by agonized tears. All he could make out was the shadow of the raised whip before the monster bit into his back again, followed by searing pain, and the replenished wave of red. 

His mind wandered from his brother, famished and alone, to his present torment. They would both die the same way, the exact way Lovino had feared in his early youth and now anticipated with numb realism. What came after death was uncertain, but life was clear and predictable. The poor were born into deprivation and shame, and as they grew to whatever meager age fate allotted, they were afflicted by different personas of Poverty. With Poverty came ignominy, which stalked the poor to their graves. It was simple really. 

The whip rent through his flesh again and Lovino gasped. He sunk against the whipping post where his hands were suspended above his head. Another lash. He had lost count now amidst the anguish. It didn’t matter; he doubted he’d last until the final stroke. 

He must have fainted, for the pain, the visions of blood and the crack of the whip faded at once. When Lovino came to himself, the ordeal was finally over. One of the guards, Rossi he believed, was untying Lovino’s hands. The whip lay furled into a loop, hanging against the wall, weeping scarlet tears. 

“You’ve got parents with money around here?” Rossi asked. 

Lovino shook his head. Rossi exhaled heavily and said: 

“You’ve got anyone you know with money around here?” 

“No,” Lovino murmured. ”No one here.” 

“Someone out of town then? Farther north in Naples? Outside Naples?” 

“No.” 

“Dammit!” Rossi cursed, turning to his companion, Lorenzo, who was leaning against the wall. ”What did I tell you? Carriedo’s got no sense in him!” 

“Calm down!” Lorenzo hissed. “He hasn’t left yet. He’s up in his office, but at the rate you’re going…”

“Fine then,” Rossi snapped, facing Lovino again. “Well, boy, looks like we’ll have to wait till morning to see how the court wants to settle this, if it goes that far, that is.” 

Settle this. Settle what? Lovino couldn’t imagine there being anything more to be done, any further punishment beyond the horrors he’d just endured. 

“But I am free now,” he said, half to himself. 

“I suppose no one explained the whole issue to you,” Rossi said. “It’s not as though Carriedo would sink low enough to run his own errands for once. The story goes like this. You robbed two gentleman of fifteen piastras. It’d be absurd for nobles not to expect monetary compensation of some sort. So, here it is: a fine of sixty piastras, to be paid in exchange for the culprit’s freedom. Doesn’t matter who pays it, so long as we get all sixty in the end.” 

“Sixty piastras,” Lovino whispered. He had never owned half that amount. Obtaining the full value of the fine at once would be near impossible had he been given a year of freedom to earn it. 

“I can’t,” he protested. “Please Signore! I…”

“It’s not my decision,” Rossi sighed. “If you must pick a fight with someone, go plead with Carriedo.” 

“He has a brother,” Lorenzo interjected. “You have a brother, boy, don’t you? You spoke of him when you came here. Perhaps he can assist you?” 

“Feliciano?” Lovino cried. “He’s only twelve!” 

“I was working long before I was twelve!” Rossi said. “You’re all the same, you lazy brats, just lying around the streets begging for…”

“Enough, enough,” Lorenzo said. “Let us finish this business now so that we can go home. I’m sick of this foul place!” 

After a few more heavy moments of protest, Lovino tried, with difficulty to get to his feet. He hissed in pain as his torn back stung more with every movement. He took several small steps with difficulty, before collapsing against a nearby table, clinging to the leg for support. Lorenzo lifted him up and half carried the youth the rest of the way. 

The old prison cell Lovino had spent the past nights in seemed tighter now. In the past hour, its wall had grown thicker and its bars firmer. Lovino was dropped against the straw bed in the corner. Soon, the material was blooming with scarlet clouds. 

Lovino watched the guards lock the door and depart. Rossi mused about whether or not it was too late for a drink. He needed a drink after all that trouble. Oh, how he had suffered! The thought turned grief to rage, and in a desperate attempt to escape the shame before he died, Lovino shouted after his captors: 

“The fine must be paid? I will meet you bastards in Hell whether it’s paid or not!” 

There were new footsteps coming down the stairs. Lovino half-hoped to see Rossi appear at the entrance so that he could unleash a full tirade. Instead, he saw a familiar Spaniard staring back at him. The conversation with Carriedo floated back to Lovino like a spiteful, hideous bird: 

_“You will have me killed.”_

_“No, no. I would never do that.”_

_“You lie to me.”_

_“Now, what would I gain from that?”_

_“What would you lose from that?”_

_“I’d lose your trust?”_

“You lied to me, Signore,” Lovino said. “Now what have you to lose?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d love to know what people think of what’s going on! Reviews are welcome! If there’s something that you feel could be better, I’ll see what I can do. All feedback is greatly appreciated.  
> I apologize for any historical inaccuracies with the currency value amongst other things.


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